


Daydream Believer

by miwahni



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-16
Updated: 2010-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:32:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miwahni/pseuds/miwahni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon's relationship with Illya becomes an issue on the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daydream Believer

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published in _Relative Secrecy 8_ ; timed-out in 2005.

DAYDREAM BELIEVER

Bev W (Miwahni)

 

They say that hindsight gives us 20/20 vision. Looking back I realize that all the clues were there, hidden in those last few days, if I had chosen to look. And I'm supposed to be a spy — why then am I so utterly clueless when it comes to my personal life? I guess I chose to only see what I wanted to see.

 

Monday 3:30 p.m.  
Whole Lotta Love

"'But,' Mr. Solo?" Alexander Waverly looked up at me, lifted a quizzical eyebrow. "There are no 'buts' about it. You and Mr. Kuryakin are going to California to retrieve this information. I don't recall offering you a choice."  
"With all due respect, sir, Mr. Kuryakin's shoulder was injured only this morning and is still quite painful. He's in no condition to go out into the field just yet."  
"Has he been released from Medical? Has Dr. Glover certified him fit for duty?" Waverly punctuated his questions with stabs of his pipe bowl. "Hmm, I thought so," he continued, as my silence confirmed the answers he suspected. "In matters of his health, Mr. Kuryakin is his own worst enemy. If he continues to insist that he is fine, who am I to disbelieve him?"  
Waverly rose from his chair and crossed to the reinforced glass picture window that overlooked the streets below. When he spoke again his voice had taken on a different tone: colder, more distant.  
"I spoke to Mr. Kuryakin earlier today, and now I must broach this subject with you. What I am about to say gives me no great joy, I can tell you."  
He remained standing, facing out the window. "Your — ahem — relationship with Mr. Kuryakin is becoming common knowledge. Personally I don't give a tinker's curse what you get up to in your private life — and the good Lord knows you're entitled to a bit of happiness — but make no mistake, Mr. Solo, you are CEA and as such there are certain standards you must adhere to. Keep this issue private — or do away with it entirely. Resolve the situation to my satisfaction. You may go."  
"Sir, I…"  
"You may go, Mr. Solo." Finally he turned to face me. I saw sadness in his eyes then. He knew exactly what he was asking of me; knew the cost, but asked anyway.  
I rose to my feet. "Thank you sir," I said as I left the office of Section One, Number One.  
The ultimatum didn't stay at the forefront of my mind for very long, pushed away by the backlog of reports I needed to wade through. Illya's early departure from the office meant I had more than my share of work to tackle. And somehow, I couldn't believe that Waverly was serious. Sure, he wanted to rattle me, to warn me of the possibility of trouble with others, but deep inside I felt he wouldn't make a move against us. Not while we were the best team he had.  
By the time I had tidied the last of my paperwork away it was 5:30, and I decided to call it a day. I had arranged for Mark and April to come to my apartment after dinner so we could go through the files on the new assignment, and discuss the finer points. They were bringing James Cavill with them, a young hot-shot agent from Los Angeles. He had come to New York on a courier run, bringing classified files with information too sensitive to be entrusted to any other medium of delivery. Illya and I were to accompany James back to Los Angeles and bring back a scientist who had decided to serve the forces of Good, rather than those of Evil. The man had worked closely with Thrush in the past — it was expected that they would try to prevent the defection.  
The apartment was in darkness when I entered. The living space, with its tiled floor and comfortable leather couch, was deserted, the tv set cold. Faintly from further inside the apartment I could hear a radio playing softly, and a glance down the hallway revealed a strip of light from beneath the bathroom door. I smiled silently: a feral smile, an 'I'm going to get my own way' smile that many Thrush agents had learned, to their disadvantage, meant exactly what it implied.   
I made my way down the hallway, still without turning on a light. I stepped into the bedroom, removed my jacket and hung it neatly in the closet, noting the gun in its holster slung across the back of the valet chair, the jacket flung haphazardly on the bed, the crumpled shirt on the floor. Automatically I reached for the jacket and hung it, too, in the closet. I gathered the shirt up off the floor, intending to throw it into the laundry basket, but stopped as my hand encountered something in the shirt pocket. I drew out a small flat box with a prescription label stuck to the front. The label informed me that the box contained painkillers, prescribed for Mr. Kuryakin. I sat the box on the dresser before sending the shirt to its final destination.  
Illya didn't look up as I entered the bathroom. My lover was lying back in the bathtub, but the water couldn't hide the bruises, fresh purple bruises just blooming down one side of Illya's torso. The green of the tiles reflected off Illya's skin, casting a sickly hue over the usually golden body.  
"It looks worse than it is." Illya spoke without opening his eyes, knowing exactly what I was thinking. After years in the field together, and nine months sharing a bed, he doesn't even need to look at me to read me like a book.  
I hung my robe on the hook behind the door. "That still gives it a lot of scope for hurting," I replied mildly, but inside I was seething. Friendly fire, they called it, when someone supposedly on your side mistook you for the bad guy. But this wasn't a mistake, at least I thought not. This was bigotry, prejudice, one of our own having a go at Illya because he was… well, because he was Illya. Because he was Russian. Because he was smart, and good at what he did. And aloof. And gay. Definitely that. Always that.  
Not that he advertised the fact. But there were whispers, rumors, always stories going round about the pair of us. Some of the rumors I could deflect via the attention I paid to female staff members. But Illya didn't even try. Didn't seem to notice, in fact. Or care, if he did notice. Now, however... well, Waverly had upped the stakes.  
"You should have something done about that," I continued in the same mild tone as I undressed. I was referring to Illya's injuries; he referred to the cause of them.  
"Pointless. He won't try it again." Illya shrugged, yawned, and finally opened his eyes. I was amused as I watched Illya's gaze travel down my body. I was already half-erect from the sight of my lover stretched naked in the bath, his flaccid penis resting against his thigh, hiding inside its coat of skin (Extra warmth in winter, very important in a cold climate, Illya had explained to me once. Where was the advantage in being circumcised? I'm still not sure if he was joking.).  
"Bring. That. Here." Three soft words, spoken as a command which I instantly obeyed. I moved to the edge of the bath and went to get in, but was forestalled by my partner's hand closing around my cock. Illya's hand, warm and wet, slippery with soap, pressed up against my hardness while his fingers teased my balls, rubbing them gently. Illya's mouth then closed around my fullness, licking, sucking as he stroked my balls with his other hand, while the radio played on regardless, Frank and Nancy singing Somethin' Stupid, in perfect time to Illya's movements.   
"Stop," I finally gasped, stepping backwards and out of Illya's grasp. "I want you too, but I can't reach you. Not like this. Let me get in the bath too, and when we're clean we can move this to the bedroom."  
"And get dirty again? Where is the sense in that?" my practical Russian queried, but all the same he wiggled up to the end of the bath and made room for me to join him. I stepped carefully into the hot water, then seated myself between Illya's raised knees and leaned back to rest against his chest. I settled my weight gently, mindful of his injuries, but still Illya couldn't avoid a hiss of pain.  
"Sorry," I whispered and went to move away, but strong arms encircled my body, holding me close. Illya had control of the washcloth and gently rubbed it all over my body, but when I tried to reciprocate, I was gently pushed away.  
"I've already washed. It's time now to get out — before you wrinkle like a prune."  
We stepped out together and grabbed the thick blue towels from the heated rack. Slowly, sensuously we dried each other. I gasped as Illya used one corner of the towel to tease my nipples, already painfully hard, then ran his velvet tongue across each one in turn. The softness of his tongue was an erotic counterpoint to the roughness of the toweling.  
I reached for Illya's cock and gently retracted the foreskin. "Must make sure you're thoroughly dry, can't have you catching a cold here."   
Illya shivered and pressed forward into my hands. His mouth found my neck and he began to bite and suck as I stroked his cock, pulling the skin back as far as it would go then dragging it back up over the head. One silvery tear glistened at the slit and I knelt to lick it, lapping at the slightly rough skin, swirling my tongue across the sensitive head, savoring the taste of my lover. Illya still made no sound, although his breathing had quickened and was definitely ragged. Illya then pulled me to my feet; his talented hand found my cock and slowly stroked me to bursting hardness. I was sure that I could not feel desire like this and survive for much longer. With a growl I pulled Illya towards the bedroom. He came with me, unresisting.  
When first we became lovers I had been nonplused by Illya's silence. The man never made a sound in bed, not a whimper, not a groan. I thought this was unnatural, but Illya explained.  
"In my country, it is not prudent to draw attention to the fact that you are having sex with a man," he had stated gravely. "Do not expect me to overcome my early conditioning so easily. And don't mistake my silence for displeasure. You do please me, Napoleon. Even if I don't say it."  
At that moment I had decided to make it my life's work to cause my partner to moan out loud with pleasure.  
Once inside the bedroom Illya took control, pushing me down on the bed and spreading out alongside me. His tongue sought, and found, entrance into my mouth and we happily kissed for the next few minutes. Hell, I could kiss Illya all night — he is the most erotic kisser I have ever met. Some nights we lay on the lounge for hours, just kissing. Beautiful.  
But tonight we both wanted more. Mr. Waverly's warning was forgotten in the passion of the moment. Once Illya began rhythmically sucking my swollen cock, all coherent thought fled. Every fiber of my body vibrated with my need for this beautiful, golden man.  
When he removed his mouth from my straining erection, I felt bereft, abandoned. But he moved quickly up to stretch on top of me. He reached for the jar kept on the bedside table and with one hand removed the lid, then dipped a finger inside.  
"Open your legs, love," he whispered in my ear and, shaking, I obliged him. My whole body quivered with anticipation as his hand snaked down between our bodies, and he slowly, tantalizingly, pressed his finger against my entrance. A promise of greater pleasure to come. His gelled finger easily slipped inside, past the restrictive muscle, gently circling and stretching the muscle. I think I whimpered at this point; I know he suddenly smiled, bit my neck, then whispered, "Patience, please." His finger was soon joined by a second digit, probing and stretching me to accommodate his erection. This was good, but I wanted more, desiring the closeness that only came with penetration.   
"Enough, I'm ready," I grunted, surprising myself with the ability to vocalize. I was sure it had fled from me, along with most of my common sense and all of my concern for Mr. Waverly's warnings. Illya smiled his Sphinx smile again and removed his fingers. I retrieved the jar then, coated my hand and liberally covered his cock with the slippery gel. Tucking my ankles up over Illya's shoulders, I willed my hips to remain still as Illya positioned himself so that the head of his cock was against my opening, then with one long stroke he was inside me.   
I know I groaned aloud at that moment. Illya had, as usual, hit the spot that sent me into orbit. Yuri Gagarin has nothing on Illya, I thought to myself dazedly as he continued to thrust with a slow, sensuous rhythm. As the pleasure built inside me, I moved my hips, trying to increase the tempo, but still he maintained his even movements, sliding slowly in until he was fully sheathed, then gradually pulling out until he reached the point I thought he would slip out completely; then once more moving forward into me until I could feel his balls against my ass. Finally I could take no more of this slow, sweet torture.  
"Illya, please…."  
"Do I not?"   
"Always. But."  
Illya opened his eyes then and smiled down at me, all the while maintaining his measured, even tempo. "But what, Polya?" he whispered, using the pet name he only ever used when we were in bed. "If you do not tell me what you want, I will not know." His grin grew wider. "After all, I am not a mind-reader."  
'Harder. Faster. Please." Sentences consisting of more than one word were beyond me.  
He appeared to consider my request for a moment, then grinned at me again. "Very well. Since you remembered your manners."  
Immediately the tempo increased and we rocked together furiously, two made one. Soon he balanced his weight on his right hand and placed his left around my erection, pumping me until with an inarticulate shout I spilled my seed, hot and sticky across my stomach and chest. Shortly after, I felt his body still then spasm as he reached his own climax.  
Our ragged breathing dominated the room for the next few minutes as we both regained our senses. From the bathroom Illya's radio still played softly; Herb Alpert was crooning "This Guy's In Love With You." Eventually however I had to move, or risk remaining bent double forever. With as much energy as I could muster I poked Illya's thigh.  
"Hmm?" was his only response.  
"Legs," I pronounced. "Cramping."   
Illya raised his upper body and started to withdraw from me.  
"Nooo…." I groaned, clutching his backside. "Stay with me."  
"Which is it to be? Legs down, or stay here?" I could hear the amusement in his voice. Reluctantly I let go his ass, and he rolled from me, enabling me to slowly straighten my legs. They hadn't started to cramp badly, but I gave my hamstrings a quick massage, just to forestall any stiffness.  
Illya raised himself on one arm and looked down at me. In the dim light he appeared somber, troubled. "Whatever comes, Napoleon," he began haltingly, "whatever the future may hold, know that I love you. No, hush…." I had opened my mouth to speak but he silenced me with a finger across my lips. "It is important to me that you know this. Please, tell me that you understand."  
"I know you love me, you don't need to put it into words, even though I like to hear it. But I don't understand why you…ah." The penny dropped then. "Mr. Waverly's little chat brought this on. Illya, don't worry about it. He's just letting us know he knows; he won't actually do anything about us."  
"Nevertheless. I am yours, Polya. Heart and soul." He laughed lightly then, a self-deprecating laugh. "Not that I am such a good bargain. Shop-soiled, frayed around the edges."  
"Shut up." I kissed him, deeply, before continuing. "We're two of a kind, lover. Both flawed, decidedly second-hand. But it cuts both ways. I belong to you, too. Anything you ever want, if it's in my power to give…."  
Illya pushed me towards the edge of the bed. "Then get my dinner. I'm hungry."

*****

We went to no trouble over dinner, making do with a simple pasta dish. While we ate we discussed the case Mr. Waverly had assigned us, what little we knew about it. Afterwards I cleaned the kitchen while Illya read the newspaper. At eight p.m. Illya stretched gingerly, winced, and stood up from the table.  
"Please make my apologies to April and Mark, but I need to sleep. I am totally exhausted tonight."   
"That's fine, Illya, I know they'll understand. You had a rough day. How's the shoulder feeling now?"  
By the way he rubbed it, I could see it still troubled him. "I'm sorry, but one of us isn't going to get much sleep tonight. I'll toss you for the privilege…."  
"Look, if you hurt that much, just take the damned painkillers. I'll survive, it won't be the first time."  
Illya had the grace to look remorseful. "But you should not suffer merely so that I do not."  
"I'll live, I said. Now take the tablets and go to bed." Illya did as he was told with no further argument — a first! I thought to myself with amusement. I went to check on him a few minutes later and found him already asleep, curled on his right side in the waterbed's embrace. The continental quilt in its vivid blue cover — a color that mirrored Illya's eyes — was pulled up over his shoulder and tucked under his chin.   
I gently stroked the hair back from the high forehead while I studied the sleeping profile. Sometimes I had to pinch myself to believe that this was real. I had always been a bit in awe of my partner — his cool intellect, his strength of character, his disdain of other people — and having him in my bed was a never-ending source of wonder. "Sleep well, love," I murmured, then switched off the bedside lamp and left the room.  
Ten minutes later there was a knock at my door signaling the arrival of the other agents. I checked through the peephole before disengaging the security and allowing the others to enter. Mark, April and a young man I guessed to be James entered the apartment. I held my hand out to introduce myself. "Napoleon Solo. CEA, Northern Hemisphere."  
"James Cavill," the sandy-haired man replied. He was good-looking in a boyish way, with a light dusting of freckles across his tanned face, and clear hazel eyes. However his handshake was anything but boyish, belying the self-deprecating air he affected. I guessed his age to be around thirty.  
"Quietly, if you all could. Illya had a run-in with a hostile today and he's feeling pretty sore and sorry for himself. He's already gone to bed."  
"I heard something about that," April said as she slipped out of her heavy coat. I took it from her and hung it over the back of the couch while she placed her briefcase against the side of the couch.  
"What exactly did you hear?"  
"Only that one of the junior agents picked the wrong person to strong-arm, and ended up in hospital…. I had no idea that Illya was involved, though."  
"I heard about that too," James commented as he looked around the apartment. "Hey, great view!" He had wandered over to face the picture window. At this time of night, the lights of the city were spread out below like an incredible moving pageant of light. James stood watching the traffic for a few minutes, while I poured drinks. I handed a gin and tonic to Mark, a rum and coke to April, and poured a scotch for myself.  
"What's your poison, James?"  
"Bourbon for me, thanks, if you have it. Say, is it true that your partner is a Russki agent who's a queer into the bargain?"   
I nearly spilled the drink I was pouring. However, I recovered well, and my hand had stopped its shaking by the time I handed the drink to the Californian agent. April, meanwhile, had turned to stare at James, the look on her face a mixture of fury and outrage. At a gesture from me, however, she choked back her anger and calmed her expression.  
"All the world is queer except me and thee — and I'm not too sure about thee!" I misquoted Shakespeare. "I make it my policy never to discuss the personal business of my agents unless it has a direct bearing on a case." I gestured towards the couch. "Now, shall we begin? I don't want to be up half the night."  
Mark and April sat in familiar companionship on the comfortable couch, while James and I each took one of the reclining chairs which flanked the couch. April retrieved her briefcase and pulled out the file on our defecting scientist. She distributed copies of the file to the rest of us and we sat reading in companionable silence for the next hour. Occasionally someone would ask a question, or make a suggestion, and a discussion would ensue, but eventually the silence would descend again as we each went back to our reading.  
I suddenly became aware of a flicker of movement on the periphery of my vision. I looked up to see Illya standing in the doorway, golden, sleep-soft and tousle-headed. He was bare-chested, bare-footed, and wearing jeans, half undone. The line of golden hair arrowing downwards from his belly glinted in the light, spun silk inviting touch, before disappearing under the faded blue fabric. I felt my mouth go dry at the sight of my lover, while at the same time being surprised that Illya would appear in front of our friends in such a state of undress.  
I heard April suck in her breath, and her muttered "Jesus, look at the bruises…."  
Illya ignored her. Face tilted toward the floor, he gazed up at me from under wheaten lashes before stating earnestly, "I need the purple blanket, Napoleon, where is it?"  
I shook my head. "Last I saw it, it was on the end of the bed. What do you need it for?"  
Illya looked up into the light, and I noticed the unfocused look in the normally clear blue eyes.  
"Hullo, you're asleep still, aren't you? Go back to bed, love. You're not quite with us."  
Illya stepped down into the room. In two strides he stood before me, then sat to straddle my knees, his own knees either side of my thighs. Illya placed his hands on my shoulders and leaned forward, peering intently into my face.  
"I really need the purple blanket, Napoleon. Where have you put it?" he asked again, enunciating each word clearly as though speaking to a child.  
Through prior experience with Illya's sleepwalking episodes, I knew the best thing to do was to humor him. Trying to wake him was dangerous, and arguing with a sleepwalker was futile at best. "Go back to bed, and I'll bring the purple blanket in to you."  
Illya stood, lithe as a cat, turned, and walked back out of the room. I could hear the whisper of his feet on the hallway tiles. I rose, then, and followed the somnambulant form into the bedroom.  
I returned only a few moments later. "All tucked up and sleeping. He was already asleep by the time I got in there. And the purple blanket is still at the foot of the bed." I shook my head ruefully as I seated myself back on the couch. "Now you know why Illya avoids taking painkillers."  
"Really mess with his head, do they?" April asked sympathetically.  
"Do they always make him sleepwalk?" Mark asked  
"Nope. Sometimes they give him nightmares, which is much worse. At least the sleepwalking is harmless so far. And he thought to put some clothes on. That's a start." I grinned and wiggled my eyebrows lewdly. "Not that I don't appreciate the view…."  
"Does he ever make any sense, when he sleepwalks?" April questioned  
"Not really. We can have some terrific ridiculous conversations though. It's a pity that he never remembers them in the morning. He's convinced I'm a terrible liar and I make it all up."  
James sat silently throughout this exchange but the look on his face spoke volumes. I sighed inwardly; in light of Mr. Waverly's warning, I regretted this incident. I knew that Mark and April were fine with the relationship between Illya and me. April had discovered it by accident, the result of a truth serum pumped into me by a Thrush thug when she and I were on assignment together. I assumed she had told Mark, and invited them both to dinner one night. Turned out April had been the very soul of discretion and not said a word to her partner, but he was accepting of it.  
Not long afterwards we finished up. Illya, James and I would go to Los Angeles and retrieve our feathered friend the next day, while Mark and April would handle the arrangements from this end. I saw the three agents out, with a final confirmation of our flight time in the morning.   
I was more tired than I realized. Wearily I turned off the lights and made my way to the bedroom where I stripped off in darkness, not wanting to disturb Illya. As I got into bed he stirred slightly. Like a heat-seeking missile he turned towards my warmth and snuggled closer, mumbling softly in Russian before settling back down into sleep.  
I stroked his back until I, too, drifted off.

 

Tuesday 9 a.m.  
Going To California

Illya was quiet on the flight to L.A. I'm used to his silences now, I think. Once I would have reacted to them by becoming over-garrulous myself, but I no longer feel the need to fill the void with chatter. So I just relaxed and enjoyed the flight. The attendants were pretty, as usual, and it passed the time to flirt with them. Illya knows I mean nothing by it, that I'd rather be in the toilet giving him a head job than flirting with a pretty stewardess. But Illya steadfastly refuses to fulfill my fantasy, saying he fears for his physical safety should the plane strike unexpected turbulence. And so, I flirt.  
James was seated a few rows back. The California hotshot seemed glad to get out of New York, to be heading home again. Back to the sunshine — orange juice for the eyes, I heard it described once — the beaches, the outdoor lifestyle, the smog, the traffic snarls… I guess each place has good and bad in it.   
When we got to L.A we took a taxi to our hotel. James left us at the airport, saying he'd pick us up in about an hour. Meanwhile Illya did the de rigueur security sweep of the room, while I unpacked our change of clothes and hung them in the closet.  
The room had only a double bed which really suited me fine. There was a minibar, stocked with those miniature bottles that don't contain enough alcohol to have any effect on you whatsoever; also a few packets of chips and nuts in a bowl on the countertop. Your basic hotel room — they're the same the world over. Believe me, I know.  
Illya finished his security sweep and sat on the bed. He rubbed absent-mindedly at his left shoulder — I knew he shouldn't be in the field so soon but try telling him that. "When will James be here?" he asked.  
"Any minute now. It took us nearly thirty minutes from the airport."  
Sure enough James arrived only a few minutes later, and we were whisked away to our destination.  
James had set up a "meet" with the ex-Thrush scientist. The location was a dark, dingy bar in a side street, not the sort of place you'd stumble into accidentally. Or if you did, you'd stumble back out again as quickly as you could. Illya moved off to check the place out. Once he was satisfied that there was only the one entry or exit, he returned to the table where we sat, drinks in hand, waiting for our man to show. We had our backs to the wall and a good view of anyone entering or leaving.   
James idly traced patterns in the condensation forming on the side of his glass. "I hope this doesn't turn out to be a no-show," he commented.  
Illya just grunted. Never the most sociable of people, he was positively clamlike in some circumstances. I nudged his thigh with my knee under the table. "Cheer up, tovarishch. Make the most of it. We're in California, its still warm even though its late autumn, we could be freezing our butts off up a tree somewhere, or buried in snow at a polar stakeout, or…"  
"Alright Pollyanna, thank you for the pep talk."   
I wondered how my serious-minded partner knew who the hell Pollyanna was — but now was not the time to ask him. Our man had just walked through the door. He looked around but didn't see us immediately as his eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom. James half-stood to beckon the scientist over, and at that second all hell broke loose.  
Have you ever watched a movie, where the action scenes are played in slow motion? It really is like that. Time seems to crawl and you feel as though you are moving through treacle. Everyone else's movements appear the same. It was with this sense of distortion that I watched the gunmen explode through the doorway, bringing their rifles up as they swept the outlines of the room with the barrels. Illya launched himself across the table and knocked the scientist out of harm's way, while James… well James just stood there, a shocked expression on his face; then instinct kicked in and he pulled his gun, blasting the first gunman before he could get a shot off. Then Illya had his Special in hand and was firing, firing, while my gun also spat death.   
It was over quickly. Our scientist was unharmed, while three birdies had their wings clipped. James called his office for a clean-up detail then joined Illya and I outside in the alley where we stood guard over the defector until a car came for us.  
Illya moved off to call the incident in to Mr. Waverly, and informed him that the scientist was unharmed. I took the opportunity to have a little chat with our friend James.  
"You seemed to hesitate when the firing started — everything okay?" I asked him. The only response was an inarticulate growl.  
"I'm sorry, I don't speak Bear," I stated mildly. The look of loathing on the younger agent's face deepened.  
"I don't answer to you — you're nothing but a dirty queer."  
This took me by surprise but I recovered quickly. "Well that may be so, but I happen to be a queer with a title — and the last time I looked that title said CEA Northern Hemisphere so I expect you to answer my questions."  
James just turned away. "So court-martial me, or whatever," he said disgustedly.  
It was then that I noticed Illya leaning up against the wall behind me.  
"How much of that did you hear?"  
He pushed off from the wall and stood in front of me, arms folded across his chest. "I came in at the part about you not speaking Bear."  
I tried for a flippant tone. "Well, if you'd care to translate…."  
He regarded me for a moment, head tilted to one side and an odd little frown on his forehead. Then, "This is not the first time your sexuality has been an issue with your subordinates."  
"Fuck 'em."  
His mouth twitched in that little half-smile I knew so well. "I would prefer you did not," he replied dryly. Then our conversation was brought to a halt by the arrival of our car.

 

Tuesday 7 p.m.  
What Is And What Should Never Be

We ate that night in the hotel dining room. It was only half full so service was relatively quick. The muted hum of conversations ebbed and flowed around us, giving us a measure of privacy for our own conversation. The meal was passable, the wine agreeable. Over a cheese platter Illya broached the subject that was still obviously bothering him.  
"Napoleon, how did James know that you are homosexual?"  
"Bi," I automatically corrected him, then grinned as he rolled his eyes and sighed.  
"Once, just once, would you give me a straight answer instead of dancing around the topic?"  
"I thought we just established that I'm not straight."  
Illya kicked me under the table for that.  
"Ouch — did you have to do that?" I rubbed my shin briskly.  
Illya rose to his feet. I could read his anger in the line of his jaw and immediately regretted my flippancy. He crumpled the napkin from his lap and threw it onto his plate. "I'm going back to the room. Don't wake me when you come in." Chair legs scraped across the tiled floor as he pushed his empty chair back under the table.  
"Wait, wait, sorry." I tried to let the sincerity of my apology show in my eyes. I get really uncomfortable discussing personal issues, and I've learnt to deflect most questions with diversionary tactics. Unfortunately, these rarely work with Illya. He recognizes them for what they are and just gets impatient with me.  
"Well?"  
"Sit, please." I reached my foot under the table and pushed his chair back out. He sat once more but warily, as though preparing for flight if I said the wrong thing.  
"Illya — you sleepwalked last night. While James and Mark and April were still visiting."  
His eyes narrowed. "And?" he prompted.  
"And you were dressed only in jeans, you sat on my lap and asked me for the purple blanket. I told you it was on the bed — not your bed, or my bed, but the bed, which I guess was pretty dumb. Although Blind Freddy could have seen there was more going on than just partners."  
He shook his head slowly. His golden hair shone in the light cast by the overhead fluorescents, while his eyes were in shadow. With his face angled upwards the light emphasized his high cheekbones and strong jaw. He had never looked more desirable — and so utterly alien — as he did at that moment. "How can I save you if you won't save yourself?" he whispered. I really didn't have a clue what he meant by that, and he wouldn't explain further.  
He was in a strange mood for the rest of the night. His loving was more thorough than usual; he took time to kiss every inch of my body, slowly, as though cataloguing me for later recall. As though he needed to store the memory for times when I wasn't there. And as usual I failed at my assignment — my personal "Make Illya Moan" assignment. Although I came close, I thought, when I pulled his foreskin forward then slid my tongue inside and around the edge of his cock. He grabbed my head and his breath hiccuped in his throat, but no actual sound passed his lips.  
I drank him in that night, first with my mouth and then with my body. He spun it out, savoring the experience, rocking towards completion but stopping on the verge, eyes closed, mouth open as he waited for the urgency to subside, then resuming his rhythmic penetration. I took it for as long as I could but finally I needed to come, needed the release from the aching pressure in my balls. I guided his hand onto my cock and he obliged by stroking it in counterpoint to his thrusts. My orgasm triggered his own and his mouth clamped down, sucking hard on my neck as he came.  
Later, as we lay cuddled together in post-sex lethargy, he traced the bruise on my neck with one finger. "I marked your neck," he said quietly.  
"Not the first time," I replied. His head was resting against my shoulder and I buried my face in that fragrant hair. "Anyway, you've already marked my heart," I continued. "Indelibly — it won't fade with time."  
"Stop it, Napoleon." Illya sounded weary as he pulled away slightly and rolled onto his back. I propped myself up on one elbow so I could look at him.   
"Stop what, exactly, Illya?"  
"Stop making me love you more than I already do. Stop making me want you, stop making me consider the possibility of a future with you… just stop making this harder than it already is."  
I reached down and took his soft penis in hand. "Doesn't feel too hard to me." But my touch brought him quickly back to life. He arched his back, pressing his hardness against my palm. I marveled once more at the feel of him, silky skin stretched over firm flesh, standing proud, larger than I had originally imagined — then again, a lot of what I had originally imagined had been blown away the very first time we made love. That first fumbling, foolish time when we laughed like schoolboys under the covers as he showed me how our bodies best fitted together, and taught me that, though I might be CEA during the day, at night he was master.  
He slipped down the bed, blazing a trail along my body with the tip of his tongue. I had been erect from the moment I had felt his cock thicken in my hand, and now my erection twitched and wept as his mouth grew closer. He stopped just before reaching it, turned to look at me with the tip of his tongue touching the center of his top lip. His eyes were hooded with lust and his voice was husky as he asked, "Is this what you want?"  
"Do it." I uttered the strangled words which changed to a groan as finally his mouth closed over me. I resisted the urge to thrust upwards, not wanting to choke him, knowing that he would take me all the way soon enough. He relaxed his throat muscles in order to accept all of me at once, and then he started to suck. It was mind-blowing. The feeling seemed to start in my toes and travel up my legs — by the time it reached my groin it was a full-on attack on my senses. I could drown in this feeling, but I trusted Illya to save me. His skillful mouth was taking me relentlessly to the point of no return.  
Then he stopped. I sighed in frustration as he released my cock and squirmed back up to the top of the bed where he began to kiss me. I could taste myself on his tongue and it made me harder than ever.  
"Will you let me love you, this time?" I asked quietly. A quick nod was my answer. I shuddered in anticipation; my control-freak partner was going to allow me this greatest intimacy. Not giving him time to change his mind I quickly prepared us both then positioned myself over his supine form. Seeing him like that, spread out beneath me, eyes closed, so vulnerable and trusting, gave me an ache in my chest to rival the ache in my cock.  
"Illya, oh Illya," I whispered as I sheathed myself fully inside him. His hips arched up to meet me and I could tell by his sudden sharp intake of breath that the angle was correct. Slowly, slowly I drove into him, savoring the feel of his tight muscle around me, the taste of his kisses on my mouth, the sight of him gloriously sweaty and naked beneath me. He met me thrust for thrust; gradually the tempo increased until we were slamming against each other in frantic haste, feeling the impending climax and reaching out for it, just as we reached out for each other.  
Illya's arms snaked up around my back and he crushed me to his chest as he came, head thrown back and golden hair in disarray on the pillow, his corded neck and grasping hands betraying the intensity of the orgasm that wracked his body. The sight alone was enough to bring me over the edge as I pumped into him one final time, my body convulsing with pleasure as my seed spurted into his body.  
Later I watched as he padded into the bathroom. I heard water running in the sink, then he returned a few minutes later with a wet washcloth which he dropped onto my face.  
"Thanks, partner," I muttered as I began to clean up.  
"Be grateful I used warm water," was his reply. I wanted to eat the half-smile off his face but decided not to push my luck. As it was, we'd both be a bit sore on the flight home tomorrow.

 

Wednesday 6 a.m.  
Bring It On Home

The alarm clock jolted me back to consciousness early the next morning. I prodded the still form alongside me.  
"Hey, it's on your side of the bed."  
One golden arm appeared from beneath the covers and in a second the alarm was silenced; music quickly took the place of the harsh buzzer as Illya flipped the switch from Alarm to Radio. The Turtles' Happy Together fitted my mood exactly and I hummed along lazily.  
"I can see me loving nobody but you for all my life,  
When you're with me baby the skies will be blue for all my life…"  
Illya hitched closer to me until we were touching from shoulder to hip. I half-turned towards him, resting my right hand on the flat planes of his stomach. He stretched, and I felt hard muscle ripple beneath my hand.  
"I'll miss this," he murmured sleepily.  
Where the hell did that come from? Cold tendrils of uncertainty were coiling in the pit of my stomach. "What, exactly, will you miss?"  
"Waking up beside you."  
My heart stopped beating. "When?" I spoke the question softly, wondering what had gotten into Illya.  
"When it ends," was his softly spoken reply.  
"Well that's not going to be for a long, long time, if I have anything to say about it. Matter of fact, I'm putting my money on this being forever."  
"Nothing is forever, Napoleon," he chided gently. I couldn't reply, engaged as I was in nuzzling that spot where neck and shoulder meet, delighting in the warm sleepy smell and feel of my so-dangerous partner. My right hand, meanwhile, was gently stroking his stomach, ghosting across the satiny skin, feeling the texture of the fine golden hair. Inch by delicious inch I skimmed my fingers lower, until….  
"No." The voice was final, dismissive, but the grin he gave me over his shoulder as he sat up belied the coldness of his tone. "We don't have time for this," he continued as he slid out of bed. "We have a plane to catch this morning."  
The bathroom wasn't big enough for both of us at once, so Illya used it first while I straightened the bed and tidied the room somewhat. Then it was my turn to shower and shave. I exited the bathroom in time to see Illya pocket his communicator.  
"You call someone?"  
"Just checking in with Mr. Waverly."  
I frowned. I thought that was a bit odd but didn't comment further. Illya would have his reasons — he always had perfectly sound, logical reasons for his behavior — and I knew he would explain if he felt the need to enlighten me. Which, apparently, he didn't.

 

Wednesday 5 p.m.  
Heartbreaker

I hadn't seen much of Illya since we got back to New York. He had disappeared into the debriefing with our scientist, while I was immersed in paperwork. When finally I had a chance to go looking for him, I was surprised to learn that he had checked his badge in nearly an hour earlier. As soon as I could, I did likewise, then headed home.  
Once again the living areas of our apartment were in darkness, but this time a yellow oblong of light cascaded into the hallway from the open bedroom door. When I walked into the bedroom I found Illya busily packing clothes into his suitcase. He didn't look up as I stopped in the doorway and leaned against the jamb.  
"What are you up to, love?" My voice betrayed my puzzlement.  
Still Illya didn't look up. "What does it look like?"  
"It looks like you're packing to go somewhere."  
Illya lifted one sardonic eyebrow as he folded a pair of jeans into the case. "Very good, Napoleon. You'll make an excellent spy some day."  
I moved to sit on the bed next to the suitcase. I was curious but not overly concerned — Mr. Waverly sometimes assigned Illya and me to separate cases, and I figured that this was another of those times. I was surprised that as CEA I hadn't been informed, but then Mr. Waverly always has reasons for everything he does. Playfully I began to remove items one by one from the case, every time Illya added something. This earned me a black look so I stopped. "Mr. Waverly didn't tell me he was sending you somewhere."  
"I asked him not to." Illya sat gracefully on the bed next to me. "There's no easy way to tell you this. I've thought and thought about it but it still comes out the same, however I put it into words." He looked down at his hands resting on his knees. "I'm transferring to Australia — I've been seconded to Section Two, Southern Hemisphere."  
"What?" I felt as though I had been sucker-punched in the gut, the pain was so intense. "Did you tell them you don't want the position?"  
"No — I applied for it."  
That hurt even more. I didn't think it was possible to hurt this much and go on breathing. "And when were you planning on telling me?"  
"I wasn't. Actually I hoped to be gone before you got home."  
I felt my temper rising then, anger replacing my bewilderment, fueled by my pain. I rose to my feet and grabbed Illya by the shoulders. Illya winced and pulled away as my fingers closed around his still–healing bruises. His hands came up and locked onto my forearms, pushing me back as he moved to his feet.  
I shook off his grasp. "I never took you for a coward, Illya Kuryakin," I spat. "You bastard."  
"Be logical about this." Illya's infuriating calm only hurt me more. Here was the man I loved, no, worshipped more than life itself, telling me to think logically about my impending loss?   
I searched for the words, wanting childishly to wound my lover as I myself had been wounded. "Logical. Right. Worm your way into your boss's bed then take off when things get a bit rough." I laughed but there was no humor in that harsh, bitter sound. "Yeah, I can see the logic in that. Piss off then, it sounds like you got a better offer after all."  
"It's not like that. It never was like that." Illya sighed heavily. "You know I could not care less what is said about me — about us," he corrected himself, making a vague gesture towards the bed. "But our last assignment showed me how damaging the opinions of others can be to your career. You are Chief Enforcement Agent, and destined to inherit Mr. Waverly's chair one day. To do your job properly you need the support and trust of your people. I am one complication you simply do not need — your relationship with me damages your reputation and undermines your authority."  
I gave my anger full rein. "I don't give this," I snapped my fingers, "what my subordinates and colleagues think! They can live with it — or transfer out if they feel that strongly." I shook my head in frustration. "Illya, Illya, don't you see? You're the glue that holds me together. What we have—"  
"What we had, Napoleon," Illya interrupted me, his voice still maddeningly calm, "is dust, chimera. A pleasant fantasy, nothing more." Illya reached for his transistor radio on the dresser and switched it off, silencing The Beatles as they proclaimed All You Need Is Love. Obviously they didn't live in the same world I did. I had love, and it had just been found wanting. He packed the radio carefully in his bag, cushioning it between two thick sweaters.  
Until that moment I had half-believed, half-hoped that this was some elaborate trick he was playing; that Illya wouldn't really go. But that action, packing his treasured radio, brought home the fact that Illya really was planning on walking out that door, unless I could find the words to make him stay. I decided to change tack. In almost a whisper I said, "But you love me, you told me yourself. Can you deny that?"  
"Maybe I lied."  
"Lied? Look me in the eye, partner, and tell me you lied. Rip my heart out while you're at it and watch me bleed! Dammit Illya, I can't do this without you!"  
"Emotional blackmail, Napoleon? Hardly befits one in your position."  
"And what would my position be? On my knees in supplication?" I turned away towards the window, wrapping my arms across my chest, then continued more quietly. "I won't beg you, Illya."  
"It would avail you nothing if you did."  
The snap of the suitcase catches sounded like gunshots in the quiet of the room. I listened until I heard the soft snick of the front door lock, then sank to the floor, and cried.


End file.
